GIFT  OF 


. 


RO  BERT     A.   POPPE 

ATTORNEY  AT    LAW 

SONOMA  ,     CALI  F. 

Mr,  Joseph  u 
Librari 

Dear  Joe: 

Yours  o: 

JSdua  POJ 
brother,  Oha: 

I  have 

og  the  wind  t 

thing  to  sen< 

-  it  bound  in  c 

to  you  with  r 


the  Song  of  the  Pnd 
and  Other  Poems 


^__ 


By  €dna  Poppe  Cooper 


Pctaluma; 

Northern  Crown    Cg^    Publishing  Co. 
1915 


Copyrighted  1915 


To  My  Mother  Caroline  H.  Poppe, 
This  book  is  lovingly  Dedicated 


.322213 


The  Wind  blows  out  your  tangled  hair, 
Like  the  bannered  clouds  of  an  afternoon, 

And  the  siren-song  from  your  lips  so  rare 
Like  the  drone  of  bees  to  the  rose  of  June 

Comes  over  my  soul,  like  a  spell  of  peace 

From  the  dream-walled  cities,  of  ancient  Greece 
Thatcometh  late— and  goes  too  soon. 

D.  W    R. 


\ 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  WIND  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Cbe  Song  of  Che  lUind 


|T  dawn,  a  cool,  caressing  wind, 
From  Heaven's  bluest  sky, 
Comes  earthward  in  a  truant  flight 
On  beds  of  flowers  to  lie. 

A  mild  and  murmuring  maiden  wind, 

A  pure  and  perfume-laden  wind, 

A  cooing  wind — a  wooing  wind — 

The  love-lass  of  the  sky. 

At  night,   a  purling  phantom  wind, 

Astir  amid  the  trees, 

Murmurs  the  soul's  impassioned  joys, 

And  myriad  mysteries. 

We  faintly  catch  the  sound  of  wings — 

The  soft,  elusive  voice  that  sings — 

The  wind  a'gleam — the  wind  a'dream — 

A  phantom  of  the  sky. 

Sometimes  with  dread  destruction  fraught, 

It  flings  defiance  high 

And  man-made  monuments  are  naught — 

It  sweeps  them  madly  by. 

A  groaning  and  lamenting  wind — 

A  cruel  and  unrelenting  wind — 

A  swelling  wind- -a  yelling  wind — 

The  vandal  of  the  sky. 

It  mutters  in  the  storm  cloud  near — 

And  murmurs  to  the  rose — 

It  makes  the  forest  quake  with  fear, 

And  lulls  it  to  repose. 

It  agitates  Old  Ocean's  breast — 

Then  bids  it  quiet  lie — 

It  lingers  low  and  scales  the  crest— 

The  harlequin  of  the  sky. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  WIND  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

It  bears  the  rain  upon  its  wings, 
Wrapped  in  a  misty  veil- 
It  soars  the  sea  and  softly  sings 
Unto  the  silvered  sail. 
It  soothes  the  saddest  soul  to  sleep, ' 
And  wafts  a  prayerful  sigh, 
It  has  a  loving  watch  to  keep, 
The  priestess  of  the  sky. 

The  fragrant  breath  of  early  Spring, 
The  Summer's  song  and  sigh, 
The  Fall's  pathetic  whispering, 
The  Winters  wailing  cry, 
A  wind  of  dawn  and  noontide  bright — 
A  wind  that  haunts  the  silent  night— 
A  wind  that  calls  the  soul  to  flight, 
The  spirit  of  the  sky. 


Gifts 


|LL  of  these  things  Life  has  given  to  me: 
Her  duties  to   seek  and  her  beauties 

to  ?ee, 
Dawn   and   the  sunrise,  the    daytime 

at  hand. 

Patience  and  powers  that  daily  expand, 
Bird  notes  and  wind  songs  and  meadows  of  flowers, 
Child-laughter  gilding  the  lingering  hours, 
Shadows  and  sunset,  the  dusk  and  the  night, 
A  fire  in  the  hearth  place  and  lamps  all  alight, 
Star-spaces  above,  for  the  far  seeing  eye, 
And  all  of  the  radiant  life  of  the  sky, 
Sweet  peace  and  deep  slumber,  the  dreams  that 

may  be — 
All  of  these  things  Life  has  given  to  me. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  WIND  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Resonance 


(LAID  my  violin  upon  the  window 

ledge 
IWhere  all  the  summer  sounds  could 

touch  its  strings — 
The  breezes  stealing  from  the  woodland's  edge, 
The  separate  strains    each    winged    songster 

sings; 

I  bade  it  tell  how,  in  the  mother-tree, 
It  lay  and  drank  the  sunshine  and  the  dew; 
And  voice  one  measure  of  the  symphony 
That  it  could  hear  beneath  the  fadeless  blue — 
The  liquid  laughter  hidden  in  the  brook — 
The  wind  that  stirs  the  harp-strings  of  the 

pines — 

Melodic  woodland  notes  that  never  book 
Could  give  to  man  to  read  in  written  lines. 
Could  I  persuade  its  soul  to  hear  for  me 
The  plaintive  murmur  of  the  night-wind's  voice, 
The  dusk-doves  tender  flood  of  melody, 
The  love-note  from  the  lady  of  his  choice? 
I  laid  my  violin  upon  the  window  ledge, 
As  night  came  on  with  slow,  unfaltering  tread. 
Perhaps,  the  constant  stars  more  patiently 
Could  point  the  way  my  yearning  visions  sped. 
A  while,  it  seemed  too  weary  and  too  worn 
To  lift  its  tonal  spirit  to  the  sky — 
To  hear  the  songs  it  heard  'ere  I  was  born, 
So  mute,  so  mystified  it  seemed  to  lie — 
And  then  it  stirred— Oh,  for  the  master  hand! 
To  touch  the  strings  and  cause  the  harmony 
That  all  at  once  it  seemed  to  understand— 
Vibrating  through  and  through  with  melody. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  WIND  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Eupines 


JAY  DAWNS,"  says  the  clock  in  the 

tower, 

But  somehow  its  accent  annoys, 
For  the  slumbering  city  awakens 

To  hurry  and  bustle  and  noise; 

Then  a  breath,  as  of  long  ago  blossoms, 

A  waf ture  from  meadows  abloom, 

Comes  in,  with  the  touch  of  the  sunlight, 

To  this  white-walled  and  silent  old  room; 

And  I  dream  of  the  country  and  flowers 

I  knew  when  a  light  hearted  lass — 

Would    they    know    my    once    soft    winging 
footsteps, 

If  now  they  should  wearily  pass? 

It  was  long,  long  ago,  I  remember, 

In  the  days  of  a  childhood  that's  fled, 

When  I  wandered  through  soft,  verdant  meadows, 

Drawn  on  by  a  vision  ahead, 

Till  I  stood  'neath  the  blue  of  the  Heavens, 

And  the  earth  was  all  blue  at  my  feet, 

With  the  billows  and  billows  of  lupines, 

Bewilderingly  fragrant  and  sweet. 

Enraptured,  I  stood  'midst  their  beauty — 

It  seem'd  that  the  earth  and  sky 

Were  mellow  with  sunshine,  while  flowers 

Bloom'd  never  to  wither  or  die. 

Forever  the  clock  in  the  tower 
Resounds  midst  the  hum  of  the  street — 
I  am  weary  of  voices  and  people 
And  the  tread  of  the  hurrying  feet. 
For  somewhere,  a  hill  touches  heaven, 
I  know,  could  I  break  every  chain, 
I  would  go  to  the  country  of  flowers 
And  stand  midst  the  lupines  again. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  WIND  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

night 


|ALM  reigns    the  night;   I   sit  with 
thoughts   alone; 

|  Wind- voices  thrill  me  and  star-faces 

gaze 

Prom  the  high  heavens  on  my  earthliness, 
Moths  flit  on  fragile  wings;  and  from  the  haze 
Of  yonder  woodland  comes,  a  night-bird's  call, 
Whilst  whispering  fragrance  from  a  flower's  soul 
Drifts  to  my  dreams;  O  wonder  of  it  all! 
Hold  hard  my  mightier  mind;  Divine  control 
Entice  my  yearnings  from  departed  years; 
Full  well  I  know  but  shattered  hopes  are  there-  -- 
Give  me  a  compensation  for  my  tears; 
Great  beauty  of  the  night!     Move  me  to  prayer. 


Row  Che  Dawn  game 


(HE  summer  dawn  came  in  today, 
In  just  the  softest  kind  of  way, 
It  seemed  to  me  it  hardly  stirred 
A  blade  of  grass,  a  leaf,  a  bird. 
It  sweetly  'woke  the  slumbering  night, 
And  touched  the  east  with  tender  light, 
Tiptoeing  softly  where  I  lay 
The  summer  dawn  came  in  to  day. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  WIND  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

fiarbittgcrs 


HEARD  a  spring-bird  sing  today, 

While  coming  down  the  lane; 
It  sang,  in  just  the  sweetest  way, 

An  old  familiar  strain; 
And  all  my  soul  went  forth  to  meet, 
The  song  filled  days  again. 

Today  I  saw  a  wild;  white  flower, 

A  happy  little  thing; 
It  graced  a  green  and  golden  bower — 

Sweet  herald  of  the  Spring. 
How  all  my  spirit  sped  to  greet, 
The  time  of  blossoming. 

I  saw  an  azure  glimpse  of  sky, 

Where  leaden  clouds  had  been; 
And  fragrant  breezes,  whispering  by, 

So  thrilled  my  heart  within, 
I  knew  the  stormy  days  must  pass — 

The  sunny  days  begin. 
** 

J\  Drifting  Cloud 

OW  many  things  a  drifting  cloud 

can  be: 

At  first,  a  sail  upon  horizon's  sea; 
And  then,  behold,  a  great  bird  fly 
ing  west! 

I  look  again— the  bird  has  come  to  be 
A  fleet  of  ships  that  sail  majestic'ly, 
And  seek  an  anchorage    o'er  the  mountain's 

crest; 

And  then,  behold,  from  out  the  sunset  sea, 
A  maiden's  smiling  face  looks  down  on  me — 
How  many  things  a  drifting  cloud  can  be. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  WIND  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Ewe  Petals 

HERE  are  little  wild  breezes  that 

blow  o'er  the  fields 
In  tremulous  waves  of  delight; 
And  they  scatter  the  petals  of  each 

flower  that  yields, 

To  their  wooings  by  day  or  by  night. 
But  one  little  flower,  I  once  chanced  to  meet, 
Alone  seemed  contented  to  grow; 
For  she  said,  "I  will  give  not  my  petals  so  sweet, 
To  any  wild  breezes  that  blow!" 
How  the  little  winds  sang  as  they  roamed  o'er 

the  field 

In  search  of  fair  flowers,  and  knew 
In  clover  the  blossoms  their  petals  would  yield- 
As  pink  and  white  peach  blossoms  do. 
And  one  summer  night  when  the  bright  stars 

came  out, 

As  they  wandered  at  will  through  the  bowers, 
Inhaling  the  fragrance  with  festive  delight 
From  a  bevy  of  bright  blushing  flowers. 
A  light  sighing  breeze,  this  fair  flower  espied, 
And  wooed  her  with  breaths  of  delight; 
And  she  modestly  blushed  as  he  sang  by  her 

side 

In  the  hush  of  the  sweet  summer  night. 
And  it  chanced,  when  at  dawn,  as  I  passed  on 

my  way, 

This  most  modest  flower  I  found; 
And  around  her,   the  dawn's  joyous  breezes 

held  sway; 

For  her  petals  lay  thick  on  the  ground. 
Ah,  I  whispered,  I  see  that  your  love  came  at 

last! 

And  your  golden  heart  open  must  lie; 
Each  flower  in  time,  will  its  soft  petals  cast 
To  some  wandering  wind  of  the  sky. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  WIND  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Cbe  yoke  of  an  Old  Uiolin 


N  the  late  afternoon  near  a  homestead, 
A  remnant  of  years  long  ago, 
We  stood  with  our  thoughts  and   our 
fancies 

Till  faded  the  sunset's  last  glow. 

And  lingering  there,  heard  in  the  shadows 

A  melody  throbbing  within— 

It  spoke  in  the  glimmering  silence  — 

The  voice  of  an  old  violin. 

II 

And  bearded  and  gray,  was  the  player, 
In  the  musty  and  dusty  old  room, 
But  with  fervor  and  faith  unf orgotten, 
He  played  in  the  gathering  gloom. 
Though  threadbare  the  tune  he  was  playing, 
It  thrilled  with  the  days  that  had  been; 
Responsive,  our  heartstrings  vibrated 
To  the  voice  of  the  old  violin. 

Ill 

We  entered,  and  quaint  was  the  dwelling, 

In  the  lavender-scented  old  room. 

We  gazed  at  each  heart-sacred  relic, 

As  twilight  sped  on  with  its  gloom. 

Then  he  played,  and  we  knew  as  we  listened  - 

The  heart  of  the  player  within, 

With  the  years  had  grown  purer  and  sweeter 

Like  the  tone  of  his  old  violin. 

IV. 

We  left,  and  the  melody  quivering, 

Still  clung  to  the  sweet  evening  air; 

And  it  sounded,  we  thought,  as  we  listened, 

Like  the  voice  of  the  Angels  at  prayer. 

We  were  still,  for  the  dream  and  the  visions 

Of  a  long  ago  crowded  within; 

It  had  spoken  a  soul's  sacred  sorrow— 

The  voice  of  the  old  violin. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  WIND  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

tftc  Poplars 


YESTER-NIGHT,  the  poplars  tall, 
AH  trance-like  stood  beneath    the 


moon; 

'o-night  a  siren  wind,  whose  call 
Their  silent  spirits  would  enthrall, 
Breaks  softly  on  the  calm  of  night, 
With  rippling  waves  that  sweep  the  sky. 
The  poplars  listen,  half  in  fright 
To  whispers  of  a  lost  delight- 
To  songs  of  joy  that  still  may  be; 
Against  the  sky,  half  heard  to  sigh, 
They  listen  in  an  ecstasy, 
To  glorious  gusts  of  melody. 
And  then  no  longer  staid,  serene, 
The  wind-charmed  poplars  laugh  and  dance, 
Each  supple  form  clothed  like  a  queen, 
In  glittering  gowns  of  silver  sheen. 

*      *      * 

n  mating  Song 


HEARD  it  in  the  woods  today, 
A  most  persistent  roundelay, 
Flung  from  a  spring-bird's  sturdy 
throat; 

And  each  persuasive  little  note 
Held  out  such  hope,  and  rang  so  true 
With  faith  and  fervor.    Ah!  I  knew— 
A  mating  song. 

Sing  out  brave  bird,  and  may  you  fare 
Along  love's  way  with  not  a  care, 
To  make  you  deem  the  world  as  wrong; 
I  pray  that  she,  all  summer  long, 
Will  sit  and  preen  her  glossy  wings, 
And  listen  while  her  lover  sings, 
His  mating  song. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  WIND  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

fl  6ol<kn  moon 


IOLDEN  moon  arose  tonight  — 

0,  it  was  fair  to  see; 
I  The  reason  that  it  seemed  so  bright 
My  truelove  walked  with  me. 

We  heard  a  little  nightbird  sing 

A  perfect  melody; 
The  song  had  such  a  tender  ring, 

My  true  love  walked  with  me, 

We  passed  a  rose  in  matchless  bloom, 

How  could  such  beauty  be? 
It  graced  our  earthly  Paradise, 

My  truelove  walked  with  me. 

While  friends  so  many  passed  us  by, 

And  smiled  so  graciously; 
Full  well,  I  know  the  reason  why, 

My  truelove  walked  with  me. 

A  golden  moon,  a  nightbird's  tune, 

Roses  and  smiles  of  glee, 
All  life  is  but  a  night  in  June, 

My  truelove  walks  with  me. 


HE  flowers  are  waking  again 

To  the  soft,   tender  voice  of    the 

rain; 
And  the  fields  in  their  verdure  are 

clad— - 

'Tis  a  time  that  the  heart  should  be  glad— 
0  Father,  I'm  nearer  to  Thee 
And  more  like  thy  flowers  would  be, 
Just  clad  in  the  lowliest  guise 
With  my  face  ever  turned  to  the  skies. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  WIND  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Che  Patft  of  Cbe  Golden  Rod 


OMEHOW,  as  1  sit  here  dreaming, 
In  the  late  September  day, 
My  soul,  through  a  lost  land  glean 
ing, 


Goes  wandering  far  away; 

And  I  see,  through  the  mists  so  golden, 

The  paths  that  my  feet  have  trod; 

As  I  pause  on  a  by-way,  olden — 

The  path  of  the  Golden  Rod. 

Oh!  trend  of  my  idle  dreaming. 

What  power  is  it  that  stirs 

My  soul  at  the  vision  gleaming 

Of  those  golden  trumpeters? 

That  murmur  their  martial  calling 

As  the  hurrying  wind  sweeps  by; 

Then  voice  in  the  echo,  falling 

A  summery  song  and  sigh. 

Would  there  reason  be  for  regretting 

If  I  took  to  that  long  lost  plain? 

Could  I  be,  all  my  pride  forgetting, 

As  simple  and  true  again?  j 

If  through  memory's  mists  all  golden, 

On  the  path  of  the  Golden  Rod, 

I  could  turn  to  the  pleasures  olden 

And  the  faith  of  a  child  in  God? 

'Tis  ever  the  same  old  story— 

(The  poets  will  sing  it  still) 

That  the  pathway  to  greatest  glory 

winds  far  over  field  and  hill; 

O'er  pathways  that  wind  forever, 

Take  me,  where  the  Golden  Rod 

Blooms — there  can  my  soul  endeavor 

To  follow  the  path  to  God. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  WIND  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Cfte 


UNE'S  child    of    dreams,    how 

often,  now, 
Beside  my  own,  your  footsteps 

fall, 
How  often  in  the  nights,  alone, 

I  hear  you  call 
Oh,  babe  of  many  reveries, 
How  often  on  my  eager  breast, 
I  feel  your  form,  that  but  in  dreams, 

Alone,  I've  pressed 

June's  child  of  dreams,  I  would  forget- 
But  lo!  your  small  hands  clutch  my  heart; 
They  give  me  pain,  and  falteringly, 

The  great  tears  start 
Small  life,  that  hardly  lived,  to  die- 
Sweet  image  that  my  heart  entombed — 
The  little  budding  rose  of  June 

That  never  bloomed 

*      ft      * 

Jf  Cbougitt 


Jo  you  feel  this  thought  going  out 

from  me? 
"ouching  your  brow  like  the  wings 

of  a  dove, 

Or  the  breath  of  the  wind   passing  dreamily, 
Sated  and  blissfully  weighted  with  love. 
Is  it  calling  you,  calling  you,  sweetly  enthrall 
ing  you? 
Does  it  thrill  you,  and  fill  you  with  love  and 

delight, 

As  it  passes  the  roses,  and  sails  like  a  star 
Out  in  the  mystical  depths  of  the  night. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  WIND  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


Scatter  tbe  Rose's  Petals 


CATTER  the  rose's  petals- 
See  they  are  wet  with  dew  — 
Laugh  as  the  grey  clouds  gather 
Over  the  skies  of  blue. 

Take  the  last  smile  I  give  you, 
I  will  not  smile  again; 
Take  all  the  sunshine  with  you— 
Leave  me  the  mist  of  pain. 

Take  the  sweet  moonlight  with  you, 
Leave  me  the  gloom  of  night; 
Let  but  the  faltering  shadows 
Creep  o'er  my  saddened  sight. 
Go  on  your  bright  way  singing, 
Down  o'er  the  path  of  years; 
Take  all  the  life  and  laughter- 
Leave  me  the  sighs  and  tears. 


flt  Sunset 


ELOW,  the  valley  stretching    far 

away, 

In  the  dim  haze  of  the  declining  day; 
A  sudden  hush  beneath  the  solemn 


pines — 

A  silence  that  no  word  of  earth  defines; 
The  chirping  of  the  birds  that  seek  their  rest; 
A  flood  of  molten  glory  in  the  west; 
A  rose-tint  on  the  snow  that  lingers  yet — 
A  crimson  splendor — and  the  sun  has  set. 
And  now  the  twilight  shadows  drawing  'round, 
Soft  steals  the  night  where  every  heart,  has 

found 

It's  haven-rest,  save  mine.     Beneath  the  stars, 
That  flock  like  sheep  to  sunset's  closing  bars, 
I  stand  and  dream,  for  sweetest  home  to  me 
Is  where  my  heart  is-  there  I  cannot  be. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  WIND  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


Springtime  Will  not  IHi$$  Our  Promise 


PRiNGTIME    will    not    miss    our 

promise, 

'Nor  will  summer  miss  our  love, 
There  will  be  a  world  of  mating 

And  of  happiness.    The  dove 

Will  at  twilight's  tender  hour, 

Tell  its  tale  in  trees  above. 

Flowers  will  not  cease  from  blooming 

In  the  ways  we  do  not  rove, 

Bending  with  their  weight  of  sweetness, 

They  will  grace  a  world  of  love, 

While  in  olden  Trysting  places, 

All  unconsciously  will  be 

With  the  stars,  and  flower-faces, 

Lovers  wooing  joyously. 

These  sweet  Seasons  will  not  miss  us, 

Let  the  heart  of  nature  prove— 

Springtime  will  not  miss  our  promise, 

Nor  will  summer  miss  our  love. 


YC   14646 


322213 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


